Defeaning Silences
by ColiOli
Summary: Everyone saw him as the spoiled rich kid; sitting with an inheritance in his future, easy access to a business, and a free tuition. And that's one of the examples that Daryl can think of now, of how not everything is as it seems.
1. Chapter 1

Nothing was ever as it seemed.

His eyes are narrowed. He mindlessly twists between his fingers the wooden stick containing the avenue between his intellect and shared thoughts. _'Write about the idea: Not everything is as it seems'. Reference to the poems from the weekly syllabus for each example given. At the end, use your own personal experience to explain in your own words, how not everything is as it seems.'_

The assignment before him was daunting. The concept pulled from his discrete mind, to question his belief system and integrate it with a series of poetry from the text book. Putting words onto the page came as no challenge to Daryl. If there was one thing in his life that he could grasp without a doubt and excel at –it was writing. Writing was a hidden talent of his that few knew of. The type of writing he excelled at was mostly expository, analytical, or persuasive. Ideas and arguments could be birthed from lead without trying. When the pencil touched his sensitive fingertips at the end of a day, he could make sense of thousands of issues and integrate them onto the pages. It was when he was far from his writing space during the day, only then, things became confusing.

As this thought crossed his mind, the receipt for a full years tuition at the University catches his attention. It had purposely been pinned on the cork board to serve as a cloud over his head, looming above each time he sat at his desk at night to work on assignments.

_His father removes an abandoned white thumbtack and uses it to stick the pink paper to the board. It's covered in years of evidence of it's use where little pin holes are splayed about. He stands upright, as if proud of his handy-work. His son adverts his dark gaze -the kind that demands a reaction. His voice is dark and to the point. "This here, Daryl, is a reminder that while I pay your tuition, your grades belong to me. You wouldn't be here, if it weren't for me. You'll thank me, one day."_

Daryl had come from a background that from early on, made him question the system in which he'd been brought up in. His mom died when he was a child, leaving him, his drunken, work-addicted father and an anti-society brother to cope with one another. He grew up learning to sleep with pillows atop his head to drown out the sound his father fucking office assistants. He grew up able to detect the scent of liquor on another man's breath like a sharp burn to the pit of his nose. And whether that be on Merle's or his dad's breath, he knew to take off for the woods to escape any sort of trouble in which he could possibly avoid. Not even he could escape that fate –binge drinking on a daily. One big fucking pattern. The only thing to pull him from his ascribed future was being sent to college where he found a focus and was able to put his mind towards the future.

And here he sat now, at University, where he was to follow in the footsteps of his dad and get his 4 year degree in business. Merle had flunked out of college only to work at the factory. He'd told his father to fuck-off when he was told he wouldn't inherit the business without a business degree. Daryl's father, pissed and irate that his first born couldn't hold the family wealth in his own name was determined to keep his business within the name. Their business had been growing, and he was far too cautious to let an outsider in, (in which he couldn't fathom having any sort of control over). It was then, the dark eyes of his were set on Daryl. Daryl was offered a full-ride to the college if, and only if, he perused to continue the family business.

In the small town he came from there weren't many jobs. Generally most students graduated and immediately began in the family farm or small business unless they moved elsewhere. Left feeling pressed against a wall without a decision or a dime to his own name, Daryl agreed to the only thing that could put him through school. Otherwise, there was always the factory.

Yet, he sits here now, in his own dormitory with the communications and statistics books to the side, and instead places his writing assignment forth-front. Most students chose electives such as art, sports, or 'easy-A' classes. Daryl chose English.

His English Professor had been one of the most admirable teachers Daryl had come across. Instead of learning strictly what the school system had taught him his whole life, the class was instead pushed to think otherwise of the materials. Poems were re-born, and literature became rich with substance rather than consuming the reader with hidden meaning. Professor Grimes began to show the bigger picture instead of handing out magnifying glasses and instruct students to search between the diction of a prose.

The first day of class, he'd felt the sweat glisten in his palms as he came to terms that this –writing, was his passion. Anyone would think of him nothing but the wealthy redneck from a small town -only going through school because of his drunken father's greed. Truth. His father was greedy, and a drunk –probably one of the worst. And with the dry gin came the blunt connection to a fist.

But he'd been out of that tomb for over a year now since attending college and living on campus. Though the memories of it all were still fresh in his mind like the nip of cold when one thinks of snow. Or like the burn Daryl had received when their house had caught on fire, and he tried to go inside for his mom. To this day, when he thought on it hard enough, it still burned like the day it was birthed on his arm.

That in fact, was something not even Merle knew of even though they spent countless hours together before adulthood. He essentially knew little of his own brother Daryl other than what Daryl portrayed for him to see. Such as when Merle had been off to college, their fathers new anger-management focus had turned to Daryl. No one knew of the scars he carried, defining the times that not even he as a young teenager could fend off a drunken man. Everyone saw him as the spoiled rich kid, sitting with an inheritance in his future, easy access to a business, and a free tuition. And that's one of the examples, that Daryl can think of now, of how not everything is as it seems.


	2. Chapter 2

As the incisive tip of an elongated arrow points near the hour mark on an oak 12-hour clock, students begin to edge with an inner turmoil saturated with the thought of their two days of freedom. After a long week combined with the last class of the day, it causes a classroom to buzz with energy of anticipation. His lecture comes to halt as he finds himself standing before a room containing sets of anxious eyes upon him, as if pleading him to release them from the invisible bonds restraining their slack forms to individual chairs. With amusement at the forefront of his mind, he gives into the desire of those before him with a gesture to the air as if signing defeat.

"Dismissed."

Like the swarm of bees leaving the hive as if a bear tried to take their gold, the response is immediate. Bags take their places on backs while papers are carelessly scooped up and clutched to chests.

"Thank you Mr. Grimes."

"Have a good weekend Mr. Grimes."

With his hands slipped inside his slack's front pockets and a smirk pasted across his features, he nods at each of the students who part ways all while searching for one in particular. Daryl is still at his desk -passively waiting for the swarm to leave all while checking his phone before the room is clear. As he stands upright, he swings the heavy backpack at ease over one arm.

Firm, but at ease to not startle him, hand is placed in front of the Daryl just before the doorway. "Daryl, I'd like to have a word with you."

Regardless of the confusion for being stopped, he nods and walks to the front desk where Mr. Grimes leads him. Mr. Grimes pauses several times while collecting items of his own and organizing them back onto the desk. "Sorry, give me a moment."

Daryl's thoughts are as rapid as a dart flung over and over at the target, as he tries to calculate the means for a private conversation. Mr. Grimes's expression deflects nothing that sends red-flags of panic to Daryl's immediate thoughts, as those eyes are calm and focused –kind beneath their pale blue surface.

Mr. Grimes leans over the lecture desk to retrieve an unorganized stack of papers left from the students. He shuffles the mound and then slides hem into a pocket inside an amber brief-case. He doesn't look up from his leather storage case as he says, "I read the papers over this weekend. What you wrote -I admire what you said. Powerful, even."

He doesn't need to finish speaking for Daryl to know where this was going. Daryl had heard it many times prior from his other English teachers. The infamous, 'I didn't know you had it in you.' No one would think a redneck, such as he, could manage to pull off a worthy paper.

Daryl shrugs. His eyes are placid despite the compliment. "Wasn' hard. Everything was right there in the poems."

"Not only that, but your ending. The personal experience you included was impressive." Daryl's body reacts with heat growing beneath the thin skin on his cheeks. He hopes his reaction is concealed behind a blank stare, as Mr. Grimes won't look away from his own blazing blue eyes. "I appreciate the effort you put into the paper. Not everyone takes these assignments serious. I do that on purpose; asking students include a personal piece. The idea is to and try and pull from the writer personal details which give each of their works solidity. Yours, _out of all_, met the criteria."

What he wrote in the final part he'd never openly told anyone, -ever. It'd been rumor that Grimes never actually looked into the personal piece at the end of the papers. Daryl had only felt safe writing what he did because he thought it'd be left an unnoticed confession. Putting it on paper felt like one way to get it out at the time, but now he feels an ache and he wishes what he wrote hadn't been read.

"Since the start of quarter, you've yet to express these ideas out loud. No one has, actually." An adequate amount of time passes, enforcing emphasis to his statement. Daryl feels observed –opened up, even. He can't place why, but there's something in the way Mr. Grimes looks at him that makes him feel exposed –beneath skin and the layer of aggression that hides him from the world. It's as if he's being seen for who he is, for the first time.

Mr. Grimes becomes lost in thought while his palms –flat and pressed thin, support his weight on the desk as he looks out the windows to the beauty outside. Red and orange illuminates the view just on the other side. A world of turning colors is beyond the wooden shutters which attempt to strain light. Though unsuccessful, because there's light across their bodies, even casting long shadows on the floor.

Mr. Grimes smirks. Now upright, he turns his focus back on Daryl with his hand at his ashen beard, letting sensitive finger tips glide down the smooth fibers. "You've got a talent and seem to have insight. I'd appreciate it if you were to express your thoughts out loud in class."

"I don' think-" A hand is held out to silence him.

"You've got things to say. What you put on paper makes it clear that you know what you're talking about. You lack the confidence to speak those ideas out loud." He pauses, his features void of any hostility. "Daryl, you'll do fine."

Daryl's jaw tenses, sensing the loss in their discussion. Eventually, he nods, his own eyes locking onto Rick's.

Rick clips his brief-case closed and lets it drop in his hand's clutch next to his leg. "You can trust me on this."

* * *

><p>It seemed like every Sunday morning, silver beer cans toppled over the tops of over-full recycle bins, causing an overflow of waste onto the damp-morning lawn. The sound is cringing to ones sensitive, hungover ears as custodians tend to the tedious task of filling empty trash bags of the waste. There are hidden puddles of yellow or brown fluid on the ground consisting in an array of textures and consistency. Occasionally, if the dawn arose one early enough, they might witness the limp form of a student being drug back to their dorm by what many consider a good friend.<p>

Despite the grotesque scene around them, outside was crisp with a chilling air, bringing with it the particular smell of wet leaves. Fog hung just above the brick buildings as if coating the campus in a world of it's own. Fall, like the envious being jealous of winter's soon arrival, left it's dropping across the grounds where it met with the early morning dew -creating a slick surface for students to walk across when they stepped over the decaying leaves. Vomit was the worst of worries, and it was a quick trait for freshman to learn to keep and eye out for it as they grudged their way from dorm to library. Saturday nights left little memory for many, but the evidence remained the next morning.

The weekend came and went faster than majority of students hoped it would, for it was the time they could cherish with friends. Each Sunday morning the campus slowly awoke with stale form of life.

Even Daryl who tried his best to be a recluse, couldn't separate himself from the weekend festivities. His own roommate, Glenn, saw to it from the beginning of quarter that Daryl wouldn't hide himself in their dorm each evening. The night before they had spent at a party in house just off campus. It was practically early morning when Daryl had pulled Glenn from his girlfriend to escort him safely back home. She had thanked him, because apparently Glenn was past his limit and she couldn't manage carrying him herself.

When Daryl wasn't writing, drinking, or attempting other studies, he was out hunting with Merle. But Merle had been occupied with his over-time so he was left to participate in the weekend activities with those he didn't care to know. It wasn't that making friends was hard for Daryl, but he felt that they could relate only on one thing –beer bongs. It was always the mindless conversations, and he could only tolerate Merle because the time spent with him was consumed by silence in the woods.

The only person he can really tolerate by choice, is Glenn.

It only took the first couple weeks to learn that Glenn was actually a target by other students with too much time and not enough empathy for anyone else. Glenn had kept it a secret, and it wasn't until he was on the way to the showers when Daryl witnessed a small group shove Glenn up against the wall when he obviously was trying to avoid any trouble. That had been the start of their genuine friendship, rather than just getting along for the sake of living together. Glenn had later said that those kids always sought him out since the start of his freshman year.

He'd never stuck up for himself, and neither had anyone else.

Daryl had tempted to kick the shit out of them right then and there, and it took Glenn's most convincing argument to stop him. Even though he let them go with a simple threat, they hadn't interfered with Glenn since.

Daryl knew from a young age that he wasn't someone to tolerate shit from the hands of others his own age. Despite his own defiance, he tried to understand Glenn didn't have the heart to hurt another human. It just wasn't him, where-as Daryl had no issue giving it to someone who deserved it. Which as Daryl felt, was exactly what most people saw of him anyways –him being bold and fearless before allowing the chance to let anyone in and see the uniqueness he kept inside. He had a habit of making enemies before friends, just on the inclination that he was a tough as shit, and difficult to let others in.

But Glenn had his girlfriend Maggie, and Glenn was determined to let her see his good side so there was no convincing him otherwise. As far as Daryl could tell just from the few times he'd seen them around each other, they were in love. The kind of love that he only heard of, never had the opportunity to witness in real-life. It somehow made him respect Glenn with just the fact alone that he felt so passionately for another being –the kind of feeling he'd yet to experience for himself.

Their dorm is separated by an empty space between the bunk beds and the two desks on the opposite, with a pale brown carpet between. Glenn takes the bottom bunk, his own area decorated with memoirs of him and Maggie splayed about the wall like a time-line from the moment they'd met all the way to his head where his eyes steal a glance of her beautiful face before sleep. Decoratively, little lanterns with light escaping through their semi-permiable barrier are strung from a wire twisted in a neat knot, draped around the perimeter above his bottom-bunk. At night, when Daryl wakes and finds their room in a faint glow, he knows that Glenn can't sleep because he misses Maggie. His intentions are pure when he stairs at her pictures at night, and Daryl assumes Glenn probably wonders about her and what dreams take space in her mind while in a sleep of her own.

For being roommates that the college assigned, Glenn and Daryl balanced each other out fairly well. In fact, Daryl even considered asking Glenn to room with him next year since he figured he'd never be so lucky with a random pick again.

Daryl had procrastinated his statistics homework as the need to finish it held a sort of reluctance deep within him. After an hour of attempting to study the subject, Poe's short stories found their way on-top his cluttered desk. Glenn had stolen himself from their dorm earlier in the day, so Daryl was by no means distracted. Yet, in no time soon he'd felt the desire to complete his reflection paper for English though it wasn't due for another week. In the end, he'd spent several hours on that alone -editing and reshaping the content until perfect, before the note about the statistics exam Monday morning captured his attention.

Evidently, the receipt on his board served a purpose, for he spent the next five minutes glaring at it, reminding himself that these grades weren't his own.

Grudgingly, he finishes the work for his least favorite classes, takes a trip to the cafeteria later that evening with Glenn and buys a dry turkey sandwich to eat on their walk back. Shortly after, he is spent in the top portion of their warm bunk-bed by 9.

* * *

><p>Rick Grimes slowly paces in front of the classroom after reading out loud a poem to the class. "Not very long, but "The Red Wheelbarrow" is an incredible prose. Though the reader may be confused by the actual meaning. Can anyone tell me why?"<p>

There's a pause as the class shifts their eyes from empty journals and back to their teacher. Eventually, a softer voice from a female student speaks out. "The reader has no background to connect the symbolism of the wheelbarrow."

"Not exactly, but that's steering towards the point I want to make. Anyone else?"

It doesn't surprise Daryl when those pale-blue eyes find his own. He attempts to advert the unwanted attention by breaking the contact. But those eyes keep glancing back at his own, as if encouraging him to use this chance to open his thoughts to the class. Useless to his own attempts of avoiding this, Daryl anxiously squirms when they hold expectancy in their gaze. Rick's words of encouragement are still fresh in his mind.

He swallows and finds himself stealing the silence and he doesn't even raise his hand before saying, "There ain' no symbolism. The wheel-barrow is exactly as it is in the poem. The reader is too focused on finding symbolism to understand the actual meaning."

Rick is embraced in his own smirk as his eyes light up. He nods to Daryl and turns to the rest of the class. "Thank you, Daryl. You see, the reader is accustom in searching for symbolism. But, the "Red Wheelbarrow" is written about the exact scene witnessed that day. The scenery within the poem uses description of what he saw while looking at exactly what's in the poem. If we read it, just as what it is, we can place ourselves in that very moment. Rich details have this power."

The girl who answered Mr. Grime's question earlier raises her hand. "Excuse me, Mr. Grimes, but the symbolism is there. We, the reader, have a distinct key on the red wheelbarrow, 'glazed with rain water'. This could mean like, red for blood and the tears of many, right? I just don't see how the poem is only about a red wheelbarrow."

"This is an appropriate statement. But can anyone else elaborate on why the symbolism isn't the point to this poem?"

"The school system has taught that in every poem, we ought ta' look for a hidden meaning through symbolism, rather than jus' read it fer what it is. We're raised ta' think that authors make puzzles. 'Ya gotta jus' let that go."

The girl scoffs. "I've never heard that before."

"Daryl is absolutely correct." Rick confirms. "In fact, I bet if you read half of your favorite poems without the inclination to find symbolism, you'll discover some rather passionate details."

At the end of class, Mr. Grimes hands back their papers with his as-usual annotations left on the side. Daryl discretely opens his paper to the back page, where Mr. Grimes wrote, '_Thank you for the honest confession.' _

Daryl has to swallow the anxiety he feels when he reads over the personal piece he'd included...

'_Not everything is as it seems. The biggest of all lies I've been able to hide from everyone, even my own family, is that I'm gay. This above all, is how I can indefinitely say that not everything is as it seems_.'


End file.
